


Gwilym Lee x Reader - Rwy’n Ffycin fy Athro

by gingersnaptaff



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), British Actor RPF, Queen (Band)
Genre: Description Porn, F/M, I'm not responsible for the loss of your ovaries, NSFW, rip my welsh gcse, teacher x student relationship, the welsh is shit, they're both consenting adults but if it squicks you out please don't read it, this is also on my tumblah page too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-06
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-09-13 04:34:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16885704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gingersnaptaff/pseuds/gingersnaptaff
Summary: A University student and a lecturer walk into a bar...





	Gwilym Lee x Reader - Rwy’n Ffycin fy Athro

Perhaps it was nervousness that made you tremble under his gaze. You’d had that before but it had never been as intense as this. Maybe it was the fact that he was your lecturer? You had no idea what to expect with this being your first year of university and the trepidation of being in a new country, an entirely new town, and meeting new people made you feel incredibly nervous. All these new obstacles and that was even before you took the coursework into account. And now these stupid fantasies just had to occur.

You know that you should be writing out some notes for a seminar that you have later on some incredibly dry topic but your brain is somewhere else entirely. You’re aware that you’re nibbling on your pen, your brain is so far away, and you’re tapping your fingers on the wood of your desk. Running a hand through your hair you sigh loudly, looking out of the window at the raging sea. All you can think about is that penetrating gaze that makes your knees go weak and a voice that makes you blush…

Ah, fuck it. You’re not going to get any work done today. A drink is definitely in order.

It’s quiet in the pub. You’re so glad that Aberystwyth is quiet; it’s probably one of the quietest places that you’ve ever been in, except for when the sport is on. Or, the socials and then the town comes alive. It’s a place of absolute madness especially Yoko’s and you know that no one ever goes to Yoko’s willingly.

It had been a short walk and now you were ensconced in a chair, curled up and nursing a drink. The low hum of chatter from the patrons and the occasional crackle of the fire are all that you can hear and the heat is making you feel sleepy. You’ve bought a little notepad with you, just in case, but you’ll doubt that you’ll use it. There are better things to do. You were not expecting to feel this confused, this burnt out, so suddenly, so early in the term. Especially not because of a tutor. Mr. Lee, or Gwilym as he prefers to be called, is your main English Literature lecturer and you haven’t really met anyone like him before.

If he ever found out how you felt about him that would be it. You shouldn’t feel lust for him and you’re fairly sure that he doesn’t really know that you exist. You’re just someone that he tutors, a face amongst thousands, and you’re sure that if he walked in here now he wouldn’t even recognise you. Why would he? There are far more scintillating people to have a conversation with and you haven’t really talked to him about anything of note, just said hello to him in the corridor whenever you’ve walked past him.

You take a sip of your drink, the alcohol burning the back of your throat. You drum your fingers on the table and look around the room, attempting to take your mind off of everything. The afternoon sunlight is pouring through the stained glass windows, giving the room a greenish glow. The dark, glossy wood of the bar stand gleams dimly, like an oil slick, and the glasses glint like diamonds above the bar. The carpet is plush under your shoes and you can smell the sweet scent of burning oak in the fireplace, the flames cheerful and bright in the grate. The other patrons, from what you can make out of them, are close knit and arguing enthusiastically about something in Welsh. They’re sitting at the table nearest to the bar, trying to engage the pretty barmaid in conversation. She is rolling her eyes, a fond smile on her face as she pulls a pint for one of them. She spots you in your little corner and gives you a small smile. You give her one back and she turns away, picking up some discarded glasses from the bar, removing a terry cloth from one of them.

The door to the pub opens and you all turn as one, the chatter ceasing for a moment. The snap of cold air that manages to blow in makes the fire flicker for a moment and you shiver, warm as you are in your chair. You shift in your seat a little, the wood creaking in protest slightly, closer to the fire, hoping no one notices you. Why is he here? Why today of all days? He should be in his office grading papers or having meetings. Not in the same bar as you. But speak of the devil and he shall appear and the same has to be said for Gwilym Lee. He’s wearing a dark woollen coat, dark denim jeans that look as though they’ve been painted on with how the cling to his legs, and sturdy black shoes. His brown hair is windswept and – damn! - you can feel the heat in your groin spring to life just looking at him.

He’s in profile from where you’re sitting. His eyes are glowing from the light of the fire, ice blue and impossibly warm. His scratches at his stubble for a moment, eyes crinkling as he thinks about what to drink, wheeling his way through tables to get to the bar. His nose and cheeks are flush from the cold, and he licks his lips before he orders his drink, his voice barely a whisper and you’re not sure if the barmaid is leaning into hear him correctly or if she’s trying to stare at him intently. If you were her you’re sure you’d pick the second option.

There is a veritable array of seats to choose from so you’re more than a little shocked when he makes his way towards you. He’s carrying a tumbler of whisky in his hand, the liquid gleaming amber. His eyes lock onto yours for a second and you push your bag off the seat opposite you, so that he can sit down. He nods in thanks, a small gesture but it makes your heart flutter. You’ve forgotten how piercing his eyes were until he plops down, puts his drink on one of the coasters and shrugs his coat off, turning slightly so he can arrange it on the back of the chair. You’re so close to one another that you can see the bags under his eyes, the tiredness ingrained on his face. He’s bitten his lips from frustration. You can see the chapped skin and the cut where’s he’s bitten so hard he’s drawn blood.

“I teach you, don’t I?” Is the first thing that comes out of his mouth, his voice is soft, his eyes penetrating.

You rub your neck, eyeing him from under your lashes, too afraid to look at him directly. “Yes. Yes, you do.” You take a sip of your drink to stop yourself from saying something silly and put your other hand, the one that had been rubbing your neck, down onto the table.

He nods to himself, pushes his hair back from his face again an errant curl stuck to his forehead, stubbornly sticking there and you know no amount of pushing will move it, “Hmm. Are you enjoying yourself so far? Not just the course but I mean in general.”

“Oh yes,” you enthuse, hoping he doesn’t catch the way you stare at him, “I’m so glad I came here.”

_‘I’m so glad you’re teaching me_ ,’ your mind chips in, sarcastically, ‘ _I’m so glad you’re in my dreams at night_.’

Gwilym grins to himself, “Wonderful! Aber’s lovely.” He runs a hand through his hair and your breath catches. He does not notice your distress.

“How long’ve you been here for?” you say, face scrunching up to hide your blush, “Lived here, I mean.”

Gwilym sips at his whisky for a moment, you can see him doing the math in his head, swirling the whisky in his mouth as he does, eyebrows raised. He swallows the drink and his breath is hot on your face as he speaks, smelling faintly of the tang of spirits.

“Probably five years if you don’t count the fact that I started my own term here and then moved to Cardiff.” He chuckles, “Normally it’s the other way ‘round.” There’s a humourous glint in his eye and you snort.

“Is it? I wouldn’t know.”

He purses his lips slightly, coolly judging you. You’re blushing, you can feel the heat in your cheeks and you have to put a hand on your face to try and disguise it. You want to backtrack, want to say something else, anything to ease the mortification that you makes you hot with shame.

Gwilym laughs, “No, I don’t suppose you would.”  He looks at you fondly.

“I’m sorry,” You whisper, the need to apologise to your lecturer overwhelming you, “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Whatever for?” He takes another sip and looks over the rim of the glass, directly at you and you cannot turn away.

“For the – for…” Your mind is jumbled. You cough in an effort to buy yourself some time and scratch the back of your neck again.

‘ _For making a damn fool of yourself_ ,’ your mind supplies and you push the thought away, irritation rising.

Gwilym laughs again, throws his head back and guffaws, the fire underlining the sharpness of his jaw line, his cheekbones. “It’s alright,” he soothes. “No harm done.”

You release a breath that you didn’t realise you were holding in and smile. You feel relaxed, the fire is making you drowsy and you drain the rest of your drink, the nerves both multiplying and fleeing. You’re stuck between two constants, a blushing schoolgirl and a confident woman and you’re damn sure that you’re failing at the latter. Curse Gwilym for being so sweet. You’re so glad that you’re sat down because you’re fairly sure that you’d be jelly if you weren’t with the look that he is giving you. It’s like he’s looking into your soul and it makes you want to tear yourself away, to go home with him on your shoulder, and make him fuck you into oblivion.

‘ _Can’t do that_ ,’ Your brain says, bringing you back to reality,  _‘just order another drink and leave. Go home and do some fucking work. He won’t agree to it. He’s your tutor; he’ll be in so much shit if he does. You don’t want that on your head, especially not in your first year._ ’

“Look, I should go.” You say, apologetically, gesturing to the door, turning around in your seat to put your coat on.  His face falls a little and you just about deflate yourself. Is he  _interested_? Your mind boggles at that, eyes nearly popping out of their sockets. “It was lovely to talk to you. It’s just that-“

“Come back to mine?” Gwilym’s voice is soft and it takes you a moment to realise what he just said. Is he serious? You freeze. You have one of your arms in the sleeve of your coat, desperately trying to wriggle it around like a lunatic, and you have to twist around again to see the earnest look on his face. ‘ _This is so not sexy. You look like an idiot. Just go **home**_.’

“Excuse me?” You blink owlishly at him, running the hand that is not stuck in your coat through your hair and gulp.

“Come home with me.” He whispers again, eyes wide. He is pleading, eyes dark with unknown pleasures and it sends sparks straight to your core.

“Mr – Gwil – I mean, Sir _\- fuck -_ I  _can’t_.” You whisper back, shifting the coat off of yourself even as you say those words. “I’ve got work I need to do.”

He is silent for a moment, weighing up his options. “I know you want to. You’ve taken your coat off. I won’t make you do anything that you don’t want, I promise. I just – I like you.” He finishes in a small voice not daring to look at you. He’s glancing at the table, running a hand through his hair again, a moment of vulnerability, of uncertainty of what your response will be.

You sigh gently, a brief exhale as you process what he has just revealed. You give him a small smile and nod. “Alright,” You say, voice quiet, “I’ll come with you.”

Gwilym perks up at your affirmation. “Alright,” He gives a cheeky smile as he grabs his coat, sliding the chair back and putting it on. You’re transfixed on his t-shirt, the white material clinging to his toned muscles and your mouth waters. Yes, you’ll definitely go home with him.

You follow him, dumbstruck at what has just occurred, at what your stupid brain has just said, and you almost keel over with the shock. Holy fuck, you’re actually going home with your lecturer.

It’s dark as you walk along the promenade. The waves are crashing against the shore, the wind is howling, rustling the leaves, the sound like a thousand wind chimes. You walk side by side. You haven’t dared to walk arm in arm because if anyone recognises the two of you that would be it.

The rocky point that is Constitution Hill looms up at the sky, the tramline that occupies it is silent, and the moon casts its milky brightness upon its rocks. There are pinpricks of stars in the sky and you can recognise Orion, can make out the three bright stars that make up his belt, and the rhombus shape of the Plough a distance away, seemingly following you.

The streetlamps are bright and the orange light is casting harsh slanted shadows on the pavement in sharp contrast to the moon’s marble luminescence. You can hear drunken students shouting and laughing, coming home after a late night at Pier Pressure and Innon. A willowy blonde girl is screaming about how she’s lost one of her shoes and a rugby lad, broad shouldered, shark’s smile, and tan skinned, is offering to pick her up, to take her home over his shoulder.

They shout a good night at you and Gwilym as you walk away from them. The girl is giggling, high pitched though it may be; it is lost to the sea’s roar and the occasional screech of the seagulls.

You laugh as you hear them bicker good naturedly between each other, obviously flatmates or good friends, and Gwilym shakes his head at them, amusedly.

“How old are you?” he enquires, rather out of the blue.

“I bet you say that to all the girls you charmer,” you tease, as he grips you around the waist, checking to make sure the coast is clear before he does.

He chuckles. “Only the ones who make an impression,” he jokes.

‘ _Only the ones he’s taking to his bed_.’ Your mind snaps.

You chuckle. “How old are you?” you shoot back, “Are you secretly wearing a mask to be older than you actually are, because that’s frowned upon, you know.”

He smirks and shakes his head at your cheek. “You’re incorrigible.” He says, pulling you closer to him.

You huff out a laugh. “Are we nearly at yours?”

Gwilym nods, “Is that all you care about?” he teases, “Whether or not we’re at mine?”

“As I recall, Mr Lee, you invited me to yours and it’s been twenty minutes and we still haven’t arrived.”

“Perhaps I wanted to take you the scenic way.”

“Ohohoh, that’s what you’re calling this, is it? The  _scenic_ way?”

“Honestly,” he whispers, pretending to be exasperated before pressing a kiss to your forehead. You blush and he chuckles, deep and low in his chest. “Look, there’s the Old College.”

You turn your head from his molten gaze and stare at the grand building opposite you. It’s gothic architecture at its finest, looking almost like a church of knowledge. The building is white, windows high and stained glass, you can hear the generators whirring even though everyone has gone home for the night. There are gargoyles on the parapets, looking at you with deranged smiles as you turn off that particular pavement, slip down the back of an alley, into the bright lights of the street.

“It’s beautiful,” you whisper so lowly that Gwilym has to ask you to repeat yourself.

“It really is.” He seems in awe of it himself, “You should go in the daytime and read the plaques on the walls. The war memorial’s further on up, near the castle. I used to sit there at night when I was homesick.”

You look at him questioningly, tilting your head. “But I thought-“

“First year, Sweetheart, first year,” he murmurs.

“Is – is Cardiff nice?”

“It’s alright. Ah! We’re here.” He says, stopping suddenly and rooting in his pocket for his keys. His house is small, painted in a buttermilk shade and tiled with dark purple slates. It looks cosy. You’re standing in front of him; he’s done it so you’re hemmed into his body, his chest pressing ever so slightly against your back as he puts the key in the lock and twists it open. The air that greets you is warm and you shiver in delight. He lets you go in first, holding the door open for you, and you shuck yourself out of your coat.

“Can I hang this somewhere?” You say, looking at him as he takes his own coat off, muscles shifting tantalisingly under his shirt.

He gives a murmur of ascent, “hang it on the banister. I haven’t got coat hooks, I’m afraid.”

He ruffles his hair again, flicking errant strands away from his eyes before taking your arm and guiding you to the kitchen.

“Would you like a drink?” he enquires, standing in the middle of the room, next to the table, gesturing to the teak wooden drinks cabinet. “I’m sure I have some whisky somewhere.”

‘ _I’d like you to fuck me on the table._ ’ You think, before you shake your head.

“I’m fine thank you.” You haven’t moved from your spot by the kitchen door and his brow furrows for a moment.

He chuckles. “I should’ve guessed.” He sounds almost apologetic as he steps in front of you again, “I know what you want.” His voice is molten honey, warm and sweet in your ear. You shiver and it has nothing to do with the cold now, you’re certain of that. He picks you up gently and deposits you on the table that is in the middle of the room, making you squeal in confusion for a moment. The table is a dark varnished wood and big enough to fit two people on it, of that you’re sure.

He’s laughing; you can feel him shaking with mirth, as he puts you down, the wood cold upon your back even with the jumper that you’re wearing. He positions himself between your legs and you can feel his erection on your thigh, straining for release. He moans, no, wait,  _growls, actually growls,_  as it brushes against your thigh and rocks into you. Your body is vibrating with lust. His eyes are dark.

“I – Gwilym-” your eyes are wide for a moment, until he kisses you. It’s one filled with force, your tongues tangle together, battling for dominance, teeth clacking, and hands in each other’s hair. You wrap your legs around his middle, drawing him closer to you. You’re both breathing heavily, tasting alcohol on each other’s breath, and he moans as you give his hair a particularly hard tug.

“Fuck.” He groans, bucking into you. You’re squirming with impatience; your nerves are alive with electricity, body thrumming with want and Gwilym shivers above you as you trace a path from his lips to his neck with your throat. “Urgh, you fucking minx.”

“Takes one to know one,  _Sir_ ,” you challenge, taking a moment to suck a particularly large hickey on to the curve of his neck. He’s groaning in his throat, breathing laboured and his cock is hard against your thigh.

He moans as he places a hand under your jumper and tugs it away from your body, up and over your head. You have to lean away from him for a moment as he takes it off and tosses it on the floor, looking smug for a moment until you attack him with kisses again.

“Why am I the only one who isn’t wearing a shirt? That hardly seems fair.” You say, desperately trying to ignore the fact that he is now intent on divesting you of your bra.

Gwilym shakes his head in agreement and yelps slightly when you do the same to him. His t-shirt is on the floor less than a second later and you giggle to yourself. A moment later and your bra follows suit and you want to roll your eyes at the shit eating grin that adorns his face.

“Who’s the tease now?” you shoot back, the glare that you give him addled with lust.

“Still you,” He says, bucking his hips again and attacking your breasts as you toss your head back in joy.

“Fuck off, Sir.” You joke, kissing his collarbone, nibbling at the skin until it turns red. Gwilym is moaning, eyes shut and skin flushed as he places a hand under your chin and tilts your head ever so slightly to kiss you again. He nibbles at your lips, places his hands upon your shoulders, tracing barely there patterns upon your skin. His touch is soft, in contrast to the hungry kisses that he is peppering your lips with and you can feel your core grow wet, the tingles of electricity becoming a full on shock wave.

“Is that how you speak to all your tutors, you rude girl?” his voice is thick with lust, almost dazed in tone and he looks drunk with the ecstasy your hot, demanding kisses are providing him with.

You nod jokingly, as he captures your lips in another kiss and brings his hands down onto your breasts; nipples pebbled in the cold air and flushed rosy with blood. You groan as he bends down, sucking at the mounds of flesh like a man dying of thirst, biting at the rosy flesh, covering them with bruises and bites. You hiss sharply through your teeth, shrieking as he sucks hard, biting with the flat of his teeth. You toss your head back; eyes closed trying to immerse yourself in the sensations as Gwilym soothes the pain that he has inflicted with kisses. He blows gently on the left nipple, tweaking the other with his hand making you squirm again, groaning in frustration at the man above you.

“I - oh fucking hell, God-  _please!”_ Your mind is in overdrive at the sensations _._ Gwilym is teasing the sensitive flesh of your areolae now, tracing paths around with his tongue and you grip his hair once more as he moves down towards your belly, pressing softer kisses onto the untouched skin there.

Your breathing is heavy in your ears, deep in your chest and you feel as though you’ve just sprinted a marathon. Gwilym looks up for a moment and your heart skips a beat at the look of love in his eyes.

“You’re wonderful.” He murmurs, smiling and you laugh at the abruptness of this.

“You can’t say that when you’re fucking me on your kitchen table,” you say, trying to hide your grin.

Gwilym chuckles, “Very uncouth, I thought you were supposed to be an English Literature student.”

“I am!” You cry, desperately trying to undo the button of his jeans. You can’t even see where the button is really, you just want the damn things off though. It’s like trying to find a light switch in the dark, if the light switch was a really attractive six foot two man.

“You’re not showing it,” he says.

“Are you going to make me write an essay on how to speak when having sex?” You mutter as you feel around for the button until your fingers hit cool metal.  _Aha_! Got it! The button comes undone, and Gwilym laughs at your persistence, ignoring the question you’ve posed.

“You really want this, huh?”

“I am not the one that decided to invite me back to his place. I was going to do some work,  _Sir_.”

“Oh dear, poor little love got waylaid did she?” Gwilym gives another kiss to your stomach. You gasp. The cheeky bugger’s managed to get your pants undone in a moment and it took you two bloody minutes to do the same for his. “That’s alright. I’ll make it  _all_  better.”

“I want good marks for this, you dick.” You huff, impatience and his teasing getting the better of you.

Gwilym rolls his eyes good naturedly. “I don’t think the board allows it for this kind of thing, my love.”

‘ _A shame_ ,’ you think, ‘ _I’d give you excellent marks for being a fucking tease_.’

He tugs your jeans off of you insistently, the fabric pooling on the floor.

“Just – just stay like that.” He says, as you look on wide eyed and nodding, as though you’re a deer caught in the headlights. His voice is soft, and he bends down, shuffling a little to get into the proper position. Oh my fucking – no, he’s not?  ** _He’s pulling your panties off with his teeth_**.

‘ _Holy fuck, I’m gonna go into cardiac arrest_.  _Gwilym’s going to kill me. The uni’ll have to write to my parents and say “your daughter died when she was having sex with one of her lecturers. He made her go into cardiac arrest when the shithead pulled her panties off with his fucking **teeth**.”’_

You can feel the lacy fabric slipping down your legs, Gwilym holding your ankles in order to raise them higher to tug his prize off and you laugh when he stands back up, panties held gently between his teeth. His right eyebrow is raised and you giggle so hard that you make the table vibrate with your laughter.

“What?” he says, taking the lacy fabric out of his mouth and placing it on the floor. He looks genuinely dumbfounded as to why you’re laughing so hard.

“Nothing, nothing,” you giggle once more before he slips back between your legs, resting your ankles on his shoulders before removing his boxers. His cock is long and thick. The tip is flushed with blood, a vivid pink like the colour of his lips. The veins are prominent and you have the sudden urge to lick them, trace their patterns with your tongue. It is twitching in the cold, pre cum glistening at the tip, and you feel your core grow wetter again, the heat in your belly exploding. Your toes curl at the prospect of having Gwilym’s cock in your sopping core and you gasp a little as he bends down again. Your legs slip slightly off his shoulders, his hands grasping your ankles again, stopping their further descent. He presses a kiss to your folds, tongue lapping at your juices in ways that you’ve only dreamed of. The scratch of his stubble on your skin makes you moan out in delight, a delicious contrast on the softness of your thighs. You squirm, your hips bucking up into his mouth and Gwilym’s breathing is heavy with want. His eyes are half shut and he’s looking at you through his eyelashes, taking in every micro-expression that flits across your face. You can hear the soft “mmm’s” that he makes, as though your cunt is a superb delicacy that has to be savoured.

You’re twitching. Your fingers are pressing onto the table. Your legs are shaking, feet vibrating with force as your cunt spasms around his tongue. He’s licking circles in your folds, swiping up every bit of juice he can and nibbling ever so lightly at your clit. You can feel the calm wash of endorphins all over your body, deep in your bones, and you groan, begging him to hurry up.

“Oh,  _Christ_  – Uuh, you’re so good!” you whisper to him. All other thoughts have gone from your mind and you can only think about how good Gwilym is a tongue fucking you.

He hums in agreement, as if to say ‘I know,’ and you shut your eyes as a particularly big wave of pleasure rockets through your body. You’re carding a hand through Gwilym’s hair to try and keep grounded, desperately trying not to pass out the sensations are so intense. Gwilym moans again, giving your cunt particularly long lick, and hefts both of your legs onto one shoulder, making you tip backwards slightly.

Your eyes open, face scrunched up in questioning, an accusation on the tip of your tongue.

Gwilym’s face peers above you for a moment, his mouth glossy with your juices. He’s breathing heavily, chest heaving.

“It’s alright, stay like that, I  _need_  you to stay like that.” He implores, rubbing at his stubble slightly. His blue eyes are wide and you nod.

“Of course,” You breathe out.

“Good. Good. Just - just enjoy this.” His voice is small and you smile at his consideration.

“Gwilym, I - I’m already enjoying this.” You say, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. Your voice is slurred with pleasure.

He kisses you sweetly on the mouth and you can taste the tang of your juices and the smokiness of the whisky. It’s soft, and he peppers your cheeks with kisses too, taking a moment to card his free hand through your hair, brushing away any stray hairs that have gotten into your eyes.

He smiles, a gentle and heartbreakingly lovely smile, and it makes your chest tight.

“Alright,” He whispers, more to himself than you. He crouches back down, grips your ankles far tighter than before and - oh my god - plunges a finger into your entrance.

“Christ.” He whispers, as you yell out in pleasure.

Your legs are shaking again, far more intense than before and - holy fuck - it’s  _so_  good. You lick your lips unconsciously, moaning as he fingers you gently, adding a second finger in once he’s gotten into a fairly good rhythm and you’re bucking against his digits, riding them hard to completion. You need this so  ** _badly_**.

“Fuck, sweetheart, you’re taking my fingers so well. I wish you could see this. See your pretty little face as I wreck your pretty pussy. You’re so good. Such a good little tease,” He whispers huskily. He kisses your neck with tickling kisses, smirking as you moan hotly in desperation, words unwilling to form in your mouth. You can hear the dry chuckle that issues from his lips as you desperately try to escape his grip and clamp your thighs together. Your nails are pressing into the table from the frustration, from the painful, pleasurable sensations that wrack your body.

“Baby girl you need to tell me what you want.” He cajoles, as he scissors his fingers, the shock waves that the action sends out making your toes curl ever so slightly more.

There is sweat on your brow and you’re crying out wordlessly now. Gwilym is taking a masochistic delight in this and every one of your movements, every sigh and sound from your lips, is categorised in his head.

“Fuck, please let me come, please let me come, Sir.” You cry out in frustration. You’re sobbing now, breath catching in the back of your throat as Gwilym pumps his digits again, your cunt clenching tightly around them.

“Ahhh,” He says, “So you can speak now?” He kisses your neck, giving your cunt a particularly hard thrust and you scream, back arching off the table.

“Yessss! I - fuck please. I need you. I need you. I  _need_  your cock.” You’re sobbing with want, nodding your head at his every word.

Gwilym’s eyes are searching your body, his gaze is red hot and he smirks.

“Alright,” He whispers, the timbre of his voice molten. He removes your legs from his shoulders tenderly, rubbing at your ankles to get blood back into them. “Can you stand up?” He slowly removes his fingers for your cunt, drawing out the feeling of each digit disappearing before leaving you feeling empty.

“I - I need a minute.” You whisper, still shaking.

He nods, licking your juices off of your hands as he does. A droplet slides down his wrist and he licks the path downwards, savouring the taste.

“You’re so good. So good for me,” He whispers, grasping you under the arms and helping to pull you so that you can sit up. It’s a wonder you can do anything really, your limbs are so like jelly.

You hum in agreement, nodding your head unsure of what else to say.

He presses a kiss to your forehead and smiles. “What do you want?” He murmurs.

“I wanna - I wanna suck your cock.” You whisper, fully aware that you’re not with it. Why do you have to say such stupid things?

“Oh.” He asks, raising an eyebrow at you. “Really, little one? Is your cunt clenching just thinking about it? You want your pretty lips wrapped around my dick ‘til I come undone?”

You’re shivering under his gaze. “Yes.” You whisper meekly. Your gaze is downcast and there’s a red hot blush on your cheeks. Gwilym’s eyes are wide, in shock or in contemplation you cannot say, and you’re suddenly afraid that you’ve been too forthright with him. He’s your fucking  _lecturer_.

“Alright,” He says, giving you a smile. “Gimme a minute, I need to grab some condoms.”

He bends down, for a moment and picks up his discarded jeans, rooting around in a pocket for a moment until he finds two of the little packets and stands up again, tossing them onto the table.

“Just in case, doesn’t hurt to be prepared.”

You smile and nod. “Of course,” You murmur, before kissing a path from his chest down to his abdomen. His muscles are toned, and you nibble at the defined lines of his abdominal muscles, biting down on patches of skin, selfishly wanting to claim this man for yourself.

He is moaning as you continue to kiss a line down towards his cock, your hands tracing teasing paths upon his skin as you do making a breath catch in the back of his throat.

You kiss his cock. Kiss the warm skin of his balls and he gasps, a hand fisting in your hair from the shock. It’s small kisses, barely there pecks and you can taste the salt on his skin, smell the musky scent of him. He is desperately trying to still himself, to retain some sense of control at your teasing, and it makes you all the more excited to watch him come undone, see his pretty blue eyes become glazed over with lust, his body writhing from your touch, from your lips.

You wet your palms with spit before taking his dick into your hand, tracing the veins with your fingers. The lightest touch makes him shiver and moan and you take great pleasure in that. You twist the shaft slightly, thumb and forefinger locked in a loop as you fan your hand up and down his member, jerking and twisting every so often. You can hear his groans, muffled welsh swear words that he hisses into his arm, desperately wanting to bury his moans.

You take him in your mouth, softly kissing and licking, tracing the veins with your tongue now, swirling patterns onto the blood-hot, pink skin.

Gwilym’s hips twitch. He is desperately trying not to buck into your warm mouth and you moan around his cock, vibrating it ever so slightly before relaxing your throat to take more of him in.

“Oh my god. Holy fuck. Ohh. This is so  _unfair._ Fuck. You’re so good at sucking my cock.”

You give a hum of ascent, flattening your tongue and licking the head, of his cock, teasing the frenulum.

Your lips are tight around his shift and he gives the  _filthiest_  whine you’ve ever heard when you run your hands down his thighs.

You’re teasing him now, he’s gripping your shoulders tightly in frustration, the pain you feel making you cry out around his cock, kitten licking the head ever so slightly, tracing it with your tongue again.

His cheeks are flushed with pleasure and you can feel yourself grow wetter again, your juices sticky on the inside of your thighs.

He is groaning, head thrown back in delight and his legs shudder. He’s close.

“Fuck. Please lemme come, please. You’re so fucking hot, so good. Such a good girl.” He’s babbling now, mouth working at a hundred miles per minute, his brain too slow to process the jumble of words. His toes are curling in delight. His hips are bucking. His fingers curl harder into your soft flesh. His movements are picking up speed…

You stop. He gives a yell of frustration as you lick the tip for the final time and release him from your mouth with a pop. He releases his hold on your shoulders and you know that you will have bruises there tomorrow too. Gwilym is shaking in the cold air and you suddenly feel so nervous. His gaze is feral.

The trepidation that you feel is washed away by the kiss he gives you. It is scorching hot and you moan into it as his hands twine themselves in your hair and tug. You groan in delight, eyes dark with lust and kiss him back. It’s aggressive, a tug of war between the two of you, and you barely have any time to get a word out before he flips you onto your back. Gwilym’s kisses are demanding, intoxicating, and you can smell the scent of his aftershave that he uses, something sharp and citrusy.

You break away for a moment, your breathing is heavy and your eyes glazed. The only sound that echoes throughout the kitchen is the crackle of a condom packet and heavy breathing.

Gwilym then positions himself between your legs again and you moan as he drags his cock through your folds, spreading the wetness around.

“Just relax.” He whispers, “It’ll hurt for a second and then it’ll be okay, I promise.”

You nod, wide-eyed, and breathe slowly as he pushes in, your cunt welcoming him with little resistance you’re that wet. Your body tingles in pleasure and you moan loudly, head tossed back on the wooden surface of the table.

Gwilym chuckles as little, making little shock waves vibrate your cunt and you swear you almost cum then and there the sensation is so intense. You’ve never felt so full in your life.

“You’re so tight.” He moans and you feel a flash of pleasure course through your system because you are the person he is saying that about, the person who is making him lose all of his inhibitions. His breath is coming in pants as he rolls his hips forward, cantering into a more acceptable rhythm, your guttural moans encouraging him to go faster.

The table is squeaking a protest, juddering with the force of Gwilym’s thrusts and you gasp as a particularly hard one brushes against your cervix. He’s growling under his breath, you’re fairly sure that he’s speaking welsh he’s so out of it with pleasure, and you draw him into another kiss, arms drawing him to you, your hands clutching at his broad shoulders. You’re groaning, Gwilym is holding your legs in the air again and he thrusts so hard that you can see stars.

“So wet, so hot,” He whispers, eyes shut in bliss, “oh my god, fuck, you’re clenching around me, love.”

“Oh fucking god Gwil! Please, please go faster. I’m begging you, Sir!”

He bites his lip in pleasure and does so, the occasional squeak of the table turning into a full on howl, as though someone is running their hands down a blackboard, his thrusts are that hard. In the back of your mind you fear you might break the table but at this point you’re too far gone to care.

Your cunt spasms around his cock, drawing him closer and you groan.

“Ahhh, god  _yes_!” You hiss, bouncing back, desperately trying to respond to Gwilym’s rhythm. He’s driving you insane, thrusts delicately timed to send you mad. Your nails are digging paths down his back but you’re too lost in pleasure to care.

You can hear him groan in pain, guttural, almost deranged, and moan as you feel the heat in your belly suddenly tighten, letting you know you’re close.

You’re sweaty. You can smell the musky scent of Gwilym, of sex and you moan, your walls clenching suddenly around his cock.

He hisses, gasps and you watch as he tightens, muscles stiffening slightly as he empties himself into the condom before his body becomes lax, collapsing on you, caging you in, and a moment later you follow suit, keening a cry of pleasure to the heavens as your walls milk his cock for all it’s worth, you legs shaking violently in Gwilym’s hold.

It is silent for a moment then, your bodies convulsing from the aftershocks. You’re shivering slightly from the intensity of it all and Gwilym pecks you on the cheek, on your eyes, and your lips.

“Mmm, I think we should go to bed.” He says once he has gotten his breath back.

“Eager aren’t we?” You tease, giving him a small smile.

You’re both sticky and smelling of sweat, your bodies cooling after your high and Gwilym draws you closer to his chest.

“Not what I mean.” His cheeks are rosy, “You’re shivering.”

“I’m cold. Your cock’s still inside me and I’m cold.” You say, “You’re not a very good blanket.”

He snorts, kisses you again and tsks at you in joking disapproval. He shifts for a moment, and you shiver at the loss of his cock for a brief moment before he ties off and tosses the condom into the rubbish bin.

“You know,” He whispers conspiratorially in your ear, “I have a better blanket upstairs that we can share. It’s definitely warmer than staying down here.”

You give him a smile and nod. “I’d like that very much.”

You stifle a yawn before he picks you up, bridal style, and walks out of the kitchen, the pile of both your clothes the only clue to the night’s activities.

Well, that and a table that’s moved three centimetres away from its normal place.


End file.
